The Hogarth Conspiracy (49 page)

“Why not?” Victor replied, reaching the end of the country lane and turning onto a main road.

When he saw the streetlights overhead and noticed other traffic moving around them, he relaxed a little, his grip lessening on the steering wheel. But the image of the mauling he'd witnessed was inescapable. He could see Duncan Fairfax in the windshield, on the road ahead, in the night sky. When he looked into the rearview mirror, he saw Duncan Fairfax. When he turned on the radio, he didn't hear music but the insane burbling of a man gone mad, the agonizing screams of a man being brutally murdered. He could still smell the blood in his nostrils and, unnerved, pulled over to the side of the road.

Anxious, Liza touched his shoulder. “Are you okay?”

Mute, he shook his head.

“It'll be all right,” she said softly. “Honestly, it'll all be all right.” She stroked his cheek gently, and Victor rested his head against her shoulder. Her hands closed over his as, putting her lips close to his ear, she said, “I'll never forget what you did for me. Honest, I won't. If there's ever anything I can do for you, Mr. Ballam, ask. I'll be there. I promise. I'll stand in your corner whatever happens.” She held his head between her hands and smiled at him. “I've never had any man treat me like you have. You made me feel like I meant something. So remember, if you need me, I'll be there.”

His eyes closed to her touch. If he asked her, she
would
stand in his corner. She had given her word and would not break it. He wondered then if Ingola would have done the same. And immediately he knew the answer. For the first time he saw Ingola clearly. Yes, she had loved him, but with reservations, with conditions, with one eye always on her own advantage.

Liza's voice was barely audible when she spoke again. “Who killed her?”

He was still thinking of Ingola. “What?”

“Who killed Annette?”

“The same man who killed Marian Miller. It was Freeland's pilot, Duncan Fairfax.”

“But he was an
ass
,” she said simply, her voice childlike. “We all thought he was so full of himself. Did he kill Bernie too?”

“No. I don't know who killed him. It might have been an accident after all. Maybe it was just the timing and the circumstances that made it look suspicious.”

“Duncan Fairfax,” Liza repeated. “God, what made him do it?”

“Money,” Victor said simply, turning the engine back on. “Just money.”

“So it's all over?” Tully asked, almost regretful. “I was just beginning to enjoy myself. And I got the door repaired,” he said with a smile. “What are you going to do now?”

“I've got one more visit to make.”

“Mrs. Fleet?”

“No. She paid up, and that's the last I'll see of her,” Victor replied. “And Liza Frith's not going back to work at Park Street. She's going to work in France. Said she couldn't bear to be in London anymore. I like her; we'll stay in touch.” He grinned. “An ex-con and a whore; how's that?”

“Colorful.”

“We can't ever mention any of this, Tully. You know that, don't you? Never let a word slip about the painting or the Chinese.
Particularly
the Chinese. You must always be on your guard. Say nothing, not a word,” Victor repeated, thinking of Duncan Fairfax.

“Not a word,” Tully promised, changing the subject. “I've just heard that I've got a voice-over job—for dental paste. You know, the type that keeps your teeth secure when you bite an apple. ‘For confidence with a smile, choose Fermamint.' Bastards offered me some complimentary samples, and I've still got my own teeth.” He paused, scrutinizing Victor. “You must have some idea what you're going to do next.”

“Stay in London, keep my ears open for work.”

“What kind of work?”

“Are you my father now?”

“Humor me, Victor; you're the nearest I'll ever get to having a son. What kind of work?”

“There's a lot goes on in the art world. I've been a victim of it; I might as well try to profit by it now.” He shrugged. “If I can't work among thieves, I can catch them for a living.”

“Dangerous living.”

“Dangerous world,” Victor said quietly. “And one day I'll find out who framed me for those frauds. One day someone will slip up, or I'll hear something. It might take a while, Tully, but I'll find out who was behind it.” He paused. “Everything that was taken from me
I want back
.”

“Does that include Ingola?”

“No.” He thought of the letter she had sent him. He had torn it up unread.

Relieved, Tully changed the subject. “What about the painting? What about the Hogarth?”

“Well, I had it in my hands, if only for a little while.”

“No regrets that you gave it away?”

“None.” He stood up to leave. “I'll be in touch. And thanks, Tully. Thanks for everything.”

“Paid off, is it?”

Frowning, Victor studied his old friend. “What?”

“What I owe you. Have I paid it off?” For a moment Tully looked into Victor's face, then shook his head. “No, I thought not.”

Sixty-Four

C
RUMBLING SOME BREAD BETWEEN HIS FINGERS,
S
IR
O
LIVER
P
ETERS
sat beside the Serpentine and fed the ducks. He felt almost well. The cancer was still there, progressing, killing him, but it hardly mattered. The secret of the royal legacy was safe. He had succeeded in his duty, and that knowledge made him a happy man.

Suddenly he noticed one scruffy little duck across the water and threw some bread toward it, watching it hustle its way among the bigger birds and fight for its prize. The day had turned warm. One of those London days that act as a welcome reminder that winter is only temporary. That however dark and forbidding the weather has been, somewhere lies the first echo of spring. Grass that had been short and dark with rain now sent its shoots upward, and a few wastrel daffodils lifted their throats to the sun.

London buses cruised along the streets, newspapers vendors pinned back their tarpaulins, and a few early-season tourists shivering in T-shirts took snapshots of the Household Cavalry riding by. Hyde Park was, Oliver thought, exactly as he had seen it so often through the years since he had started running the gallery, since he had married and brought his new wife to the park. Descendants of the same trees that had populated the park then were again coming into leaf. The continuity, the familiarity of it all, soothed him. He drew some real comfort from the hope that his children would do as he had done and maybe while away an hour or so feeding the birds in the peaceful reaches of Hyde Park.

A shadow fell across his path. Oliver looked up, pleased to see Victor Ballam standing there. He patted the bench beside him. “Sit down,” he said, throwing some more crumbs to the birds. “They're hungry.”

Victor sat, watching as Oliver broke up some more crumbs, noticing the wasted hands, the prominent bones under his shrinking skin.

“Did the transfer go well?”

“Perfectly,” Victor replied, his eyes fixed on the scruffy little duck that was fighting for its crust. “I got the girl back. And they got the Hogarth.”

“So it's over?”

“Yes.”

Shading his eyes from the sun, Oliver turned to him. “Did you find out what you wanted to know? Who the killer was?”

“The last person you'd expect. Duncan Fairfax, Bernie Freeland's pilot.”

Oliver's surprise was genuine. “I don't even remember him.”

“Which is a damning epitaph in itself,” Victor said. “He's dead.”

“Dear God.”

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a while, Oliver feeding the birds and Victor watching. Then he glanced around him and, satisfied that no one was watching, pulled out an envelope from his pocket and handed it to Oliver.

“What's this?”

“A check for half a million pounds.”

Oliver's eyes widened in disbelief. “
What?
You got my money back?”

“No. Your money was taken by the triads. You won't ever get that back. They stole the money from Lim Chang.”

“So whose money is this?”

“Yours—now.”

Oliver stared at the man sitting next to him.

“I don't understand.”

“You borrowed half a million pounds to give to Lim Chang in order to buy the Hogarth. You lost that money. I got the same amount from another source. I put the money in my bank, and now I'm giving you a check.” He paused. “It's legal, and it's yours.”

“But—”

“You told me you were in financial difficulties,” Victor said quietly. “You couldn't afford to lose that much money, and now you don't have to. You can pay back the people you owe and get yourself out of debt.” Before Oliver could say anything, Victor went on. “
Take
it,” he urged. “It was doing no good where it was.”

“But—”

“Let
me
repay an old debt,” Victor said quietly. “A debt of gratitude to thank you for being the only person who stood up in court and spoke in my defense. You helped me then, Oliver; let me help you now. Let me do this, please.”

Deeply moved, Oliver took the envelope from Victor's hand, tucking it into his inside pocket. He was finding words difficult, but at last he said, “You can't begin to know what this means to me.”

“Oh, but I can,” Victor replied, and fell silent. Several minutes passed, and then he turned back to Oliver with a smile on his face. “Like I said before, the triads are gangsters, not connoisseurs. Good thing, that, wouldn't you say?”

Warily, Oliver lifted his head but kept his eyes averted. “You know?”

“That the painting you gave me was a forgery? Yes.” Again Victor glanced around him, making sure there was no one close enough to overhear what they were saying. “I didn't know when you first gave it to me, but later I had a good look at it and I worked it out. You see, it was too much to expect that you, Sir Oliver Peters, would give up the original Hogarth even for a woman's life. But then again, you couldn't let them kill Liza Frith; you couldn't have borne that. So you had to do something. And quickly.”

“Go on.”

“I don't know if it was because you wanted to protect the secret of the Hogarth or because you wanted to sell it.”

“No, no! I admit that at one point selling it seemed the answer to my troubles, but I couldn't. I was terrified of leaving my family in difficulties, but I raised money in other ways and I've protected them as well as I can. My son won't inherit much, but enough at least to help him make his own way in the world. I've explained everything to him; he understands.” Oliver paused, his voice even. “I come from what is called a good family, Victor. We've always been respected, and we respect what we have—this country and the monarchy. I couldn't in all conscience have let the original Hogarth go. Who would get it? What scandal could be caused by its exposure? The man in the painting was the Prince of Wales. The picture was a scandal in its own time. I couldn't risk anyone bringing that out into the open again.”

“And besides, there's a living descendant,” Victor said quietly.

Oliver nodded, his voice so low that Victor had to strain to hear it.

“Only a handful of people know who he is. It's one of the most explosive secrets ever kept, held only by the head of the government and certain members of the royal family. Now d'you see why I couldn't let the Hogarth get into the wrong hands?”

“Where's the original now?”

“In storage, where no one can ever get to it. When I die, my solicitor will confide in my wife and my oldest son, but they will never be able to sell the Hogarth, not that they ever would. It's to remain hidden as Hogarth hid it but not destroyed. Never destroyed. The future of the monarchy was under threat when William Hogarth painted that work. It's no less important now.”

Silence fell between them. Victor was the first to speak.

“How did you do it?”

Smiling, Oliver leaned back against the bench.

“I've been in this business for a long time and know a lot of people with many different skills. As you said, the painting wasn't going to a collector, so I had a little leeway. Mass reproduction houses are so clever these days. They don't just have paper prints of Old Masters like they did before; now they reproduce the prints onto canvas to give a realistic effect.” He pausing, relishing the skill of his deception. “So I bought the relevant print from
The Harlot's Progress
and contacted a discreet and reliable restorer who's worked for me often. An incredible man, trained at the Royal Academy and in Rome. A man I helped many years ago who finally—and willingly—repaid the favor. Before you ask, he would
never
divulge what was done.”

“So how did he do it?”